


petrichor

by xsprinkledheart



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Angst, Family, Fluff, Multi, will tag as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-04-05 20:46:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19048096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsprinkledheart/pseuds/xsprinkledheart
Summary: "A pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather."(Or, in other words: Arthuriana drabbles based off songs and one-word prompts)





	1. 01. to my daughter

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: nothing i could detect, but some very mildly implied violence and mentioned character deaths.

It’s going to be years before he’ll see her again.

Arthur realizes this as he tosses and turns alone in his tent. Reality creeps up and seizes him by the throat, a viselike grip he cannot crawl his way out of. Camelot has already collapsed, Lancelot and Guinevere are most likely long gone by now, and as far as he knows most of the knights are dead. He’s tried as hard as he could to defy destiny even though it is written in the stars, yet even though he has gotten Mordred to call him “Father” it wasn’t enough to stop his son (is he even his son, really) from breaking and turning away from him.

He has his daughter left, and it will be years before he sees her again. If he ever sees her again, Arthur wonders. Either he will fall in the battle tomorrow or his daughter will, or both.

He wanted them to be family. Blood is supposed to be thicker than water. Yet water will wash away blood in the end.

He asks for a messenger, and reads the words he’s written to himself one last time before he sends it away. He doesn’t know if his words will ever reach Laurel, but Arthur won’t stop trying.

_ To my daughter,  _ he recites in his head.  _ I’m not sure what the future holds for us - I have not always been honest to you, but I will try as much as I can now. I mean it when I say I’m unsure about what will happen to either of us. I don’t know if you will die, or if I will, or if either of us will make it out of here. _

He pretends that they’re strolling through the woods again, Laurel’s hand so much smaller in his.

_ I do know one thing for certain: I care about you. I want you to know that regardless of what happens, I want you to make it out of this and live. I love you - you’re my daughter, you’re a Pendragon. I don’t want you to forget that. _

He remembers reading to her now, Laurel swathed in blankets as she peers over her father’s shoulder to skim over the words on the page.

_ If you’re able to make it out of here - and I pray that you are - I want you to not make the mistakes I have. I admit that I’ve made mistakes, and I’ve hurt you in the process of making bad choices. Be honest, and be careful about those you trust. I have faith in you, and even though I can’t change fate I can at least hope things are okay for you.  _

_ I love you with all my heart. Unconditionally and unwavering. Please remember that, Laurel. _

_ \- Father _

Like he said in his letter, Arthur has hope. So he tries to sleep, hoping for Laurel’s sake.

And maybe it is foolish to hope, but he wonders if they’ll ever see each other again… 


	2. 02. songbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: n/a  
> rating: general audiences

Percival lacks feathered wings, but he has a songbird’s voice.

His voice is so sweet, yet can cut through twisted words like broken pieces of glass. He is often soft, but can sharpen his voice when he needs to - it’s one of the little things Galahad’s noticed about him.

He likes to sing, too. It always slips out of him when he isn’t paying attention or when he thinks his voice won’t fall upon wary ears: He’ll hum to himself as he paces through the woods near Camelot, or as he readies himself for sparring, and he’ll always jump a little if he whistles and the birds whistle back.

They’re curled up against one another tonight and Percival’s fingers comb through his hair. Galahad, as usual, can’t find it in him to sleep after hours spent poring through old volumes - his eyelids drooped and he didn’t bother hiding his yawning, yet he still couldn’t sleep. So he stays with Percy - he may not sleep for hours, but it becomes a little less difficult when he’s curled up in Percy’s arms.

He tries to close his eyes again and he hears Percival humming: The faint, vaguely familiar tune of some lullaby. The actual melody is wordless, so Galahad tries to imagine lyrics in his head - he doesn’t sing, though, since his throat is too scratchy for him to make a quiet enough noise.

He thinks he’s beginning to fall asleep, so his eyes flicker open and he shifts a little to face Percy - he doesn’t stop singing, but he knows and smiles. Galahad hums for a few brief moments and then sighs, letting Percival’s humming envelop him. They’ll always spend nights like this together, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: there's not a lot of percival/galahad fluff on this website  
> also me: *writes angsty drabble for these two*
> 
> honestly there's not a lot of fics for these two in general so i'm just gonna take the job of creating content for an otp of mine - which includes fluff.
> 
> hope you enjoyed! take care ~


	3. 03. homeward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: implied/referenced cheating
> 
> rating: pg

There were four of us once. I remember it all very clearly, even though I’m not sure I want to.

I remember my mother - tall, with dark hair and blue eyes. I remember she’d teach me how to sew and crochet, and she’d always be the one to fix my hair up into braids every morning - she was the only one allowed to do it, because if it was anyone else it would hurt too much and I’d squirm and tell them to stop. She taught me many things, but didn’t teach me everything. I always thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, and it seemed like more people than my father thought that too.

( _ How could you do it? Why? He trusted you. _ )

I remember my father a little better. Everyone always talked about how similar we looked - blonde hair and dark brown eyes. I remember how he’d always read stories to me before I went to bed, and he’d tell me stories of all the great heroes. My favorite one was always the story of Perseus, not just because the hero lived in the end but because my father always had fun telling that story too - I could see it in the hand gestures he made and the way he’d raise his voice to a falsetto when he was trying to sound like a woman. It didn’t matter what the story was but he’d always lean over to kiss me on the forehead and say that he wanted nothing but good dreams for me.

( _ You always hoped and worked for a better future for me, but I don’t know where you are now. And I wonder if it’s my fault that you may be dead for all I know. _ )

My… brother? Should I even  _ call  _ him my brother? Brother, half-brother… Mordred. He was ten years older than me but it never felt like it. He was different from the rest of our family with how he looked - the only thing marking him a Pendragon were his dark brown eyes. He’d go apple-picking with me, and because I’d always have trouble reaching he’d let me sit on his shoulders as we walked through the orchards. He’d always be the one to sneak me apples and candy even though I wasn’t supposed to have sweets before dinner. When I was older I ended up being taller than him, and sometimes I’d ask him if he wanted to sit on my shoulders since he had trouble reaching.

( _ Father tried, he really did. And you still betrayed him. I don’t know why. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. _ )

I wanted to do something.

I really did.

I really wanted to help. But I couldn’t. I was still a child, they always just patted my head and said it was something the adults could sort out. It didn’t have to end like this.

I miss the way things used to be. I want to go home, but I don’t even really have a place to call home anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little ficlet featuring my character laurel. take care~


	4. 04. conturbatio

He’s collapsed at the foot of the altar, hand reaching out towards the Grail. He looks so different, with his once gleaming armor coated in rust and his body so gaunt and thin. It must be painful to so much as reach out his hand, Percival thinks, and he rushes over to Galahad’s side.

He pulls Galahad away from the altar and into his arms, staring at his hollow, hollow face and green eyes that look too dull. It must hurt to breathe, for with every pained inhale Galahad takes he winces a little. His glasses sit askew on his face, yet when he sees Percival he smiles.

“You found me,” he says. His voice is so faint and shaky and Percival feels as though he might break.

“It’ll be alright,” he says, stroking Galahad’s hair. He tries not to focus on how each breath seems to grow slower and slower. “The Grail is here, but forget the Grail - we’ll find a way to help you, find a way to heal you-”

Galahad shakes his head and coughs. “I… It’s not going to work, Percy…”

He’s hunched over Galahad, shaking and clinging onto him as if  _ he’s  _ the one dying, as if  _ he’s  _ the one who doesn’t have much time left. The room is cold, and Galahad seems to grow colder.

“Percy…?” His vision begins to distort from the tears in his eyes, but he looks down at Galahad. “Would you sing for me?”

(He thinks back to all those nights when he’d hum something so that Galahad would fall asleep, back to when he’d sing to himself and Galahad would join in too.)

He nods and rubs at his eyes, then begins to sing.

It’s something he remembers from his mother - a lullaby he’d listen to her sing as she tucked him into bed every night. It’s different from some of the other songs he’s sung to Galahad, he realizes as the words come out of his mouth, but at the same time it makes him think on everything they’ve had and what they have now. For a while, he remembers, they had each other - there was hardly any good in the world, but neither chose to believe it. And if the rumors about nothing really mattering in the end were true, they would make the world worth saving - they would make the world matter.

He’s too busy singing to cry, but then he feels Galahad shift one last time in his arms. His eyes have closed and he exhales one last time, nodding his head in a pained “Thank you”.

He dies with a smile painted on his lips.

Percival stays there, holding him close. Maybe, he thinks, if he plays pretend one more time, this will just be him singing another song to help his beloved fall into a sleep he’ll wake up from in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much to say here...
> 
> i'll make up for this with something fluffy later on. take care~


	5. 05. glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: very mildly referenced violence and referenced character death.

They clean him up and place him in a shroud, the darkness of the room lit by candles. Everything is draped in black, and even though they saw the Grail shining for just a moment they know that Sir Galahad the Pure is not sleeping - even though the blood and dirt has been scrubbed way, they can’t hide the pallor in his face or his bony hands.

Lancelot is the one closest to the shroud. He stares down at Galahad - his  _ son _ \- with his eyes closed (they’ll never open again) and his hands resting against his sword. Percival says Galahad asked that he sing to him one last time, but Lancelot doesn’t know for sure. He doesn’t know because he wasn’t there. After being pushed away from the altar where the Grail was he’d woken up a while later to the fact that Galahad was dead. He’d woken up to the fact that he could have done something to change this.

_ It’s all broken beyond repair because of you. _

He remembers saying that even as Galahad tried to apologize yet again, yet his last words were him spitting in his face to his son that it was  _ his  _ fault. He remembers Galahad flinching for a moment as if Lancelot had struck him across the face and then turning on his heel and marching out of their tent, trying to conceal the tears starting to fall. Maybe there was a brief moment where he tried to say something, but…

He fixes the last word.  _ It’s all broken beyond repair because of  _ **_me._ **

All of a sudden Arthur is there - Arthur, dressed in black up to his throat with only the gold of his crown to mark him different from the other funeralgoers. He stares down at Galahad too, and Lancelot remembers why his son was gone so often. He’d always be with Mordred or Laurel or Arthur, saying that his king was more family to him than Lancelot had ever been. He remembers eleven-year-old Galahad babbling about the legends he’d studied with Mordred, and wishes now that he’d been there too.

He wishes he could have been a father.

Arthur places a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder, not looking up from the casket. “Lance-”

He envelops Arthur in a tight embrace, burying his head in his shoulder. The glass breaks, the foundations crumble away. He wants to cry, but that is a luxury he does not have and the tears refuse to flow. So he just clutches Arthur ( _ Arthur, who you’re lying to, Arthur, who was the father you could have been to Galahad _ ) close to him and squeezes his eyes shut. He does not say he misses Galahad, because to say that he misses what he never had would be the markings of a hypocrite.

If only he’d made sure to keep the spiderweb cracks from spreading across the glass. If only… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...not much to say. i'll expand on this in the full story.
> 
> take care~


	6. 06. sour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: very lightly implied child abuse in the past.

It is Sunday night; work is a day away. Kay and Gareth have been sparring, at least till they have become too tired to raise their blades against one another, bodies bruised and sore. They walk back to the towering stone castle, dragging feet through grass slicked with dead leaves. Autumn is coming - leaves have begun to wither to reds and yellows and browns and the world smells of the rainfall from the night before. 

Gareth stops on the way. Ten years old, he’s not tall enough to grab onto a tree branch, so he hops up and down, grappling against leaves and twigs. He finally catches hold of a few pears and yanks them away with a cracking noise, tossing one to Kay. His blonde hair sticks up at odd angles and fingers are matted with leaves, but his face splits into a grin of pride as he takes a crunchy bite of pear. His brothers have warned him about spoiling his dinner, and Gareth’s response is always to nod his head and then snatch up any food he can at whatever opportunity he has.

Kay squints down at the pear and frowns. The green-yellow skin gives way to something soft underneath, and a few dark bruises pattern the fruit. He tosses it onto the ground, smudging it with dirt and dead leaves - it doesn’t matter, Kay thinks, because it was already bruised anyways. What more could a bruise do?

Gareth stops eating and clenches his teeth. He says nothing, but glares at Kay. He’s taken aback by the look in those pale blue eyes - something harsh that Kay wouldn’t expect from a young boy his age. He breathes for a few moments, making a mad dash to pick up the uneaten pair and tuck it under his arm. They walk back in silence, Gareth tearing into his two pears. He stuffs the seeds in his pockets and doesn’t throw away the cores, even though they no doubt grow sticky in his hands.

“I’m sorry.” Kay’s voice is flat. He does not know what he apologizes for, though, or why. 

Gareth nods his head. “Mother taught us that we ought not to waste food. Especially me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for context: my version of gareth was often starved by his mother as punishment, since she couldn't bring herself to physically hurt him through beatings. as a result, gareth grew up to be a compulsive eater, and because of what he's gone through gets upset at people who waste food.
> 
> thank you for reading. take care

**Author's Note:**

> laurel is one of my original characters for arthuriana. she has a story too, one as arthur's daughter.
> 
> i would have preferred to use a different prompt, but i was too tired and already wrote this.
> 
> take care~


End file.
